


iowa summers

by gutrots



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 2000s, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - High School, Bickering, Friendship, Gen, Iowa, Joey is not great at urbex, M/M, Not Beta Read, Urban Legends, midwest gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24762595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: joey makes a friend (?) in the most unlikely of circumstances
Relationships: Joey Jordison & Corey Taylor, Joey Jordison/Mick Thomson (mentioned), Sid wilson & Corey Taylor
Comments: 35
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

The nighttime air is hot and sticky, humming with the buzz of insects tempted by too-bright lights of a gas station shop. They crash into the ultraviolet lamp hanging above the half-open door, falling to the ground like specks of dust. The night shift is slow as always, time dragging endlessly like the storm clouds in the distance, looming above the flat line of the horizon.

Joey twirls a strand of greasy hair around his index finger, wondering if he can put off washing it for another night, Shawn’s voice a muted noise in the periphery of his thoughts. Shawn’s rambling, as always, about another project of his, this time something involving clown masks and baseball bats, something he will inevitably put too much heart and effort into while anticipating yet another rejection letter from another art school he applied to. He smells like weed and turpentine, and it’s somehow comforting, making Joey feel oddly nostalgic.

“C’mon, Joey, Shawn said he’ll pay you thirty bucks to do it!” the screeching timbre of Sid’s voice breaks the relative peacefulness of the night as he punches Joey in the arm, swaying where he’s sat on the counter.

“Do what?” Joey asks, not because he’s interested in any of Shawn’s business propositions, but only because Sid never takes being ignored for an answer.

“Go check out that old farmhouse, you know, down the dirt road behind the truck stop, you know the one. Take a few photos. Make ‘em look all haunted and shit.”

“And why the fuck would you need me to do that?” Joey turns towards Shawn, suddenly suspicious. As much as he loves his friends, their penchant for getting into all sorts of bullshit and dragging him along for the ride necessitates caution.

“Should have listened when I was talking,” Shawn huffs, almost offended, like his art shit has God given right to hijack any conversation. “Need to scope out locations for a photoshoot. Some assholes who think they’re the next fucking Nirvana want pics for their MySpace, and it’s my fucking job to make sure they’re _grunge enough_. Like grunge is still a _thing._ They’re loaded suburban brats though, so they’re paying a hundred for a day-long shoot. One third of which will be yours if you save me the trouble of having to go see if that place is any good.”

Joey takes a second to consider the offer. Sid’s feet _thud-thud-thud_ against the counter, not helping. Shawn crosses his arms in front of his chest and fixes them both with a stern look, clearly expecting Joey to agree to his bullshit and Sid to _behave_.

“I want fifty.”

“You’re a greedy little shit, Jordison. This glorious weekend vocation doesn’t pay well enough?” Shawn gestures across the expanse of the almost-always-empty shop.

Joey doesn’t answer, choosing to shoot Shawn the best death glare he can muster given the fact that the combination of his hideous white-and-green uniform shirt and the red in his hair makes him look like the world’s grouchiest Christmas elf.

“Thirty bucks is good pay for two hours’ work,” Shawn reasons. “Sure is a lot more than what they give you here.”

“Forty. Forty and I’ll get you as many photos as you want,” Joey tries to haggle, but Shawn doesn’t look too impressed, suggesting that maybe a different strategy is needed. Attempting to make his voice sound as _small_ as possible, Joey tries again, not really ashamed to use pity to get what he wants.

“You know what they say about that house, Shawn. Don’t wanna get jumped by some hobo crackhead for thirty bucks.”

Shawn’s observation of “But you’re fine doing it for forty?” falls flat when Sid suddenly stops his thumping and rocking and general twitching. 

“It’s not fucking crackheads. Something lives in that house. Something dangerous.” Joey can’t recall the last time Sid sounded that serious.

Shawn doesn’t even merit the observation with a laugh.

“Fuck off, Sid. Some dude died there way back in the 70s and now everyone has some fucking ghost story about the place. It’s just an old house, nothing more,” Shawn explains, like he’s dealing with a particularly difficult five-year-old.

“Not fucking true,” Sid mutters, knowing Shawn won’t let him have this one. “There’s something about that place, I’m telling you. Something weird.”

“Something weird my ass. Probably a bunch of squatters who, as Joey here mentioned, might or might not be on crack. Which is why Joey is getting paid thirty bucks. For crack-related risks.”

Sid doesn’t look convinced at all. The argument’s going nowhere, and Joey really doesn’t care if the house is occasionally illegally occupied or not. “I’ll do it for forty.”

“Why even bother with the bargaining?” Apparently now is Shawn’s turn to attempt a different approach. Ridicule it is. “In need of urgent cash for more hair dye and tacky Hot Topic shit?” he inquires as he leans forward across the counter, pulling at one of the many bracelets covering Joey’s arms almost up to the elbows. The elastic snaps, hot pink skull-shaped beads smacking against skin. Joey doesn’t flinch.

“No, I’m fine for tacky shit, _thank you_ ” Joey answers, deciding not to fall for Shawn’s teasing. “I have plans. Want to do something nice for someone,” he adds, quietly, because they’re his friends and he really needs the money.

“Someone? It’s Mick, isn’t it?” Sid lays down on his stomach, stretching across the counter and getting way up close into Joey’s personal space. He props his head up on his hands and gives Joey his widest smile, the one that shows off all his cavities, like he’s a preteen girl who knows a secret about someone's crush. Shawn looks on like he's everyone’s disappointed father.

“You two really need to get over the fact that literally the whole school knows that Joey has been getting down and dirty with big Mick,” he states matter-of-factly, making Joey blush.

“Fuck off, Shawn. It’s not just _down and dirty_ ,” Joey cringes as he pronounces the words. “It’s-… it’s a thing. A couple kind of thing. Boyfriends, I guess.”

Shawn sticks his fingers into his mouth and makes a very convincing gagging noise. Sid smiles even wider, so wide Joey can almost see his fucked up wisdom tooth. They won’t let him get away without elaborating.

“Wanna do something nice for Mick before he leaves for college. Won’t get to see him much for a year, so I though, y’know, might do something. Something nice.”

“Chicago isn’t that fucking far away, not like you can’t drive up every other weekend,” Shawn leans on the counter so that he’s closer to eye-level with Joey. He seems done with the conversation, like he should have just asked Sid to go get him the goddamn photos.

“Don’t want people to think he’s weird. Dating someone who’s still in school.”

“For fuck’s sake, he’s a year older than you, it’s not that big of a deal. And besides, it’s Mick we’re talking about. Bold of you to assume that people won’t think he’s a weirdo just because you’re not in the picture anymore.”

“So, what’s the nice thing you wanna do?” Sid interjects, cutting off Shawn before he gets too argumentative. He’s kicking his feet back and forth again, expression oddly serene, like he’s some sort of fucked up Cupid who actually gives a shit about Joey’s love life.

“Morbid Angel are playing a show in Des Moines in three weeks. Tickets are expensive, and I want us to stay somewhere nicer than a motel.”

“Going all out for your oversized sweetheart, I see. The joys of young love,” Shawn remarks, a smile back on his face, one that would be mocking if there wasn’t an edge of fondness to it.

A minute passes in silence, interrupted only by the sound of Sid slurping on a mostly-melted slushie.

“Fine, I’ll give you thirty-five. If you go tomorrow.”

“Forty. Now fuck off, someone’s just pulled up. Can’t afford to get told off for having you two scaring customers again.”

* * *

Cornfields drag for miles and miles along the dirt road, their quiet rustle barely audible beneath the sound of Joey’s car radio. The day is sunny, not a single cloud hanging above the horizon, and he’s content. Morbid Angel still hasn’t sold out the Des Moines show, and if he’s still got money left from his weekend job savings maybe he’ll get new fishnets to wear with his knee-high boots and that plaid skirt Mick said looked cute on him.

The road ends in what could be considered a gravel driveway, if not for the fact that it had long been overtaken by grass and weeds, some of which blossom a light blue, swaying gently in the summer breeze. The building is an old, two-storey farmhouse, sitting abandoned in the middle of nowhere since its owners no doubt got fed up with the combination of boredom and hardship that constitutes country living in the Midwest. The white paint chips and peels off from exposure to wind and sunlight, revealing dark wood underneath, its freckles littering the ground in front of the dilapidated building almost like flower petals. Joey climbs up on to the porch, dry planks of the steps creaking beneath his feet. He takes one look back at his car, digs a disposable camera out of his backpack, and steps inside.

The interior of the house is cool compared to the stifling heat outside, scattered beams of sunlight falling through mostly boarded-up windows, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air. Floral wallpaper is peeling off the walls and there’s water stains on the ceiling, the sickly sweet scent of mildew filling the long hallway. Joey steps into the kitchen and then into the living room, snapping a few quick photos here and there. He’s not too bothered about artistic angles or anything like that – Shawn will have to make do with what he’s given.

For all the talk there is about the house, Joey feels far from frightened. The stained overstuffed sofas and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, dirty doilies and stacks of dusty magazines fill him with a sense of nostalgia, the interior oddly reminiscent of his grandmother’s house. All that’s missing is heirloom china to fill the heavy wooden cabinets, and a scent of mothballs and pot roast to replace the persistent smell of rot. He can picture people living here, kids like his younger self coming to visit their grandparents out in the countryside, spending days helping out with the harvest and the evenings watching game shows on a boxy 80s TV which now stands gutted in the middle of the living room.

The other rooms of the house are similarly uneventful and vaguely sad, a picture of a life left to rot in the middle of fucking nowhere. Joey spots a hypodermic needle and a few empty dime bags near a dirty mattress upstairs, but the thick layer of dust covering them betrays the fact that they’re far from recent. He takes a picture of broken perfume bottles assembled in a line atop a dresser with half its drawers missing, and a rust-stained clawfoot bathtub where a bird attempted to make a nest. A few shots across the landing and out the windows, down the stairs and once again into the living room, and he’s ready to head back.

As he makes his way outside, he notices a door across the kitchen. It opens to a set of stairs leading into a basement. He hasn’t brought a flashlight, so he descends slowly, the room nearly pitch black.

His eyes take a while to get used to the darkness, but he slowly begins to make out shapes of mismatched furniture and shelves stacked with decades-old tins and jars. He makes his way further into the room, feeling almost like he’s in a museum, the smell of old, unwashed clothing and rotting wood permeating the complete silence. There’s stacks of board games and VHS tapes, scratchy blankets and Christmas decorations, all preserved in soundless stillness.

And then, there’s a sound.

A faint _scritch-scritch-scritch_ coming from behind him. It’s rhythmic. Insistent. Holding his breath, Joey turns around as slowly as possible.

It’s nails. Cracked, dirty nails dragging across the floor. Their owner - he – it – is crouched in a corner, on all fours, completely still aside from the minute movement of its fingers. It observes Joey with milky blue eyes surrounded by blackened skin. Like it knew he was inside the house all along, that he would eventually come down here. The rest of its face is bone-white, a single scar running from where its eyebrow should be up towards the forehead. Its hair, twisted into a few sparse dreadlocks, sways gently as it crawls forward, dirty feet dragging across the floor.

It’s human and it’s not, the correct shape and size with all the details just the worst side of _off_. The thick skin of its face doesn’t betray any emotion as it slowly moves forward, not blinking once. Joey’s not sure if it even has eyelids. A thick line of drool dangles from its lips, falling to the dirty floor.

Joey tries to calm his racing heartbeat, forcing himself not to make any sudden moves. He lifts his hands, attempting to show that he means no harm, as he takes a step backward. His goddamn bracelets make a noise, the tiny skulls jingling against each other. The creature stills in its movement, its eyes instantly drawn to the motion of the beads, and that’s when Joey notices the rings. Big, gaudy, silver-and-fake-gemstone rings, like the ones he sometimes finds in thrift stores, but covered in a layer of black patina, one ring on each dirty finger.

Joey shakes his arm slightly. The bracelets _jingle-jangle_. The creature tilts its head to the side, like a curious animal. Joey forces a smile.

“Do you like these?” he asks, stretching out his arm, showing off his jewelry. “Here,” he says as he unties a string of black and red beads from his wrist, “take it. It’s yours.” The creature doesn’t react, its eyes still trained on Joey’s wrist. On the tiny hot pink skulls on an elastic band. A gift from Mick, a shy and simple one when they were just getting to know each other. His ticket out of the den of whatever it is that calls this house a home.

Joey crouches down until they’re on eye-level, rolls the bracelet off his hand, and pushes it across the floor.

The creature lifts it up with both hands, oddly gentle, and examines it thoroughly. Its rolls the beads between its blackened fingers, time standing still as bits of cheap plastic move _back and forth, back and forth_. It doesn’t notice when Joey picks up his camera and turns the wheel which rolls the film forward.

A single burst of camera flash illuminates the basement. The creature startles, clutching the bracelet in its hand as it scampers away into the darkness. Joey skins his knees when he falls running up the basements stairs, back towards the light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100% of this stupid doodle is inspired by the fact that whenever i see iowa (or s/t) era masked corey my mind goes straight to the "thatse it. im just a litle creacher" meme. also slipknot being formed thanks to shawn bothering joey at his gas station job is kinda cute so i had to get that in there. soz.


	2. Chapter 2

“What kind of Scooby-Doo shit is this?” Shawn is squinting at a slightly blurry picture, trying to make out the detail of a bone-white face, too-bright lights of the gas station shop casting a glare on the glossy surface of the photo.

“Could be asking the same question about your clown thing,” Joey quips. He licks his finger to count through the small stack of bills again, Shawn paying up mostly in singles. A fleck of cracked black polish flies off Joey’s nail when it catches on a crumpled bill. No matter how many times he counts, it’s still thirty-five, not forty. “I saw it up close. It’s not a mask. That’s its face.”

“Bullshit. No way that’s a face. If someone’s face looked like that they’d probably be waiting in line for reconstructive surgery and not creeping around an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere,” Shawn shuffles the pictures around, once again confirming that there’s only one showing the person Joey allegedly encountered in the basement. He looks disappointed but not surprised, like the absence of further proof is proof enough that Joey is making the whole story up. “From what I can tell, it’s a good mask though. Not the flimsy rubber shit you get from Walmart. Some kid must’ve grabbed it from a shop in Des Moines around Halloween last year. Precisely to scare little shits like you.”

“If that’s what it is, how would they know exactly when I was going to be there?” Joey keeps arguing, because he’s a smartass who hates being wrong about pretty much anything, to the point where Shawn sometimes wonders how the fuck Mick puts up with him. Joey’s lucky he’s sort-of cute. “Unless you set the whole thing up, which would be a shitty prank, even by your standards.”

“Does it talk?” Sid interjects around a mouthful of Funyuns. He’s plastered to Shawn’s side, getting crumbs all over the both of them, trying to get a better look at the pictures. Shawn attempts to push him away with a half-hearted elbow, but Sid remains undeterred. He didn’t question Joey’s story once, but that’s nothing unexpected. Otherwise all his tales of his own alien origins would be a massive double standard.

“Not really. It drools though. And _stares_.”

For all that Sid seems like he’s not quite _here_ most of the time, he’s actually pretty fucking observant, and he instantly notices the change in Joey’s mood, from annoyed to unsettled. He hops over the counter and wraps Joey in a loose hug, arms around Joey’s waist and chin resting on his shoulder as Joey continues, “I could tell from its eyes that it wasn’t happy for me to just leave. It seemed to like my bracelets so I gave it one so it wouldn’t get angry. And then the camera flash scared it off.”

“So a basement monster who’s afraid of bright lights wanted your tacky Hot Topic shit? How terrifying,” Shawn’s voice is dripping with sarcasm that makes Joey feel like he’s the one being contrary. 

Frustrated by obstinance worse than his own, Joey breaks loose from Sid’s hug and smacks Shawn on the arm, making sure his studded bracelets catch skin. “Yeah, it liked my tacky Hot Topic shit! Now stop being an asshole and trust me, just once!” Taken by surprise, Shawn drops the pictures, rubbing a hand over the red marks left by Joey’s spikes.

“Okay, fine, no need to throw a goddamn fit. Let’s assume it really is some kind of creature, and not just an ugly hobo living in someone’s basement. Did he try to hurt you?”

Joey could make endless jokes about ugly hobos living in people’s basements, except that the basement room that smells of cat piss and moldy carpet that Shawn calls his _art studio_ is, against all odds, pretty cozy, and Shawn’s grandma is mostly deaf so she doesn’t mind if it gets used for band practice as well. He’s really not interested in losing his hangout privileges, so bites his tongue on that one.

“It just sat there, looking all spooky and shit. Figured it was best not to start trouble and get the fuck out of there.”

“Maybe it’s not dangerous. Just ugly and weird,” Sid observes, shuffling the photos around on the counter. For a moment he seems lost in thought, like there’s a deeper meaning to what he just said that no one’s getting just yet.

“Yeah, because a basement-dwelling crackhead with a really fucked up face would not be dangerous.” Joey’s not sure if Shawn’s trying to play the part of a concerned father figure, or if he’s still being an asshole. Probably both. Either way, Joey’s not letting him have this one. 

“It’s not a fucking crackhead, Shawn! It’s … something else. Not human, not animal. Not dead, but not alive like we are either,” Joey concludes with a tone of finality as he goes back to inspecting his chipped nail polish. He was supposed to re-do it tonight but it’s late and he’s tired. And maybe Shawn’s not as much of an asshole as he sometimes tries to be, because he finally lets go of the topic with a “Whatever, I’ll know when I see it,” walking off to grab more snacks from that one shelf the security camera doesn’t reach.

“Virginia’s got Mothman, New Jersey has the Devil,” Sid muses, counting on his fingers. “Oregon has Bigfoot, and Mexico has Chupacabra. Maybe we’ve got Corey.”

“Who the fuck is Corey?”

“It’s him, dumbass. He needed a name.”

* * *

Sid’s rocking back and forth on his heels, backpack straps clutched tight, excited like a kid on a zoo trip. He almost pushes Joey over as they make their way through the house, Shawn following a few steps behind, grumbling about wasted time and sweating through his shirt in the stifling summer heat.

They head straight for the basement, the stairs creaking under their combined weight. They’re prepared now, all three armed with flashlights, which soon roam through the crowded space. Nothing seems to have changed since Joey’s last visit to the house, the thick covering of dust on each and every surface completely untouched, aside from the spot on the steps where he tripped and fell.

They slowly make their way deeper into the room, flashlights illuminating its time capsule contents. There’s rusting bikes and a what must be a pool table covered with a bedsheet, and Joey almost feels stupid for even agreeing to bring Shawn and Sid along.

“Smells like feet in here,” Shawn observes as he inhales the stale air.

“Maybe it’s just you,” Joey shoots back because Shawn has enough manners not to smack anyone that much smaller than himself.

They continue forward into darkness which seems to stretch further and further, flashlights catching nothing but old suitcases and lawn chairs until they finally hit a wall. Joey lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Shawn only shrugs with an annoyed “Told you so” as he turns around and begins to make his way back. He barely catches Sid by the back of his shirt when he notices him starting to squeeze his way past stacks of furniture off to the side of their path.

“And where the fuck are you off to? We’re done here.”

“Might as well have a look around, if we’re here already. Tons of cool shit in there,” Sid somehow wiggles out of Shawn’s grasp and makes his way towards a shelf containing rows and rows of vinyl records. He runs his finger along the spines of the dusty jackets, picking one out and sliding the record out of the sleeve.

That’s when Joey hears it. The _scritch-scritch-scritch._ He shines his flashlight into the darkness behind Sid.

He’s there. Crouched between the shelves, staring directly at them. He doesn’t appear to be caught off guard, eyes trained forward and body coiled tight, like he’s ready to pounce. Sid turns towards the space illuminated by Joey’s flashlight, then back to Joey, and finally towards Shawn. He grins like Christmas came early.

Sid puts the record back in its spot on the shelf and unceremoniously plops down on the dirty floor, sitting cross-legged and hunched forward, so that he’s staring the creature – Corey – right in the eyes. Joey can’t help but feel like something’s about to go horribly wrong.

“Hey, buddy, hi,” Sid coos, like Corey’s the stray cat who had her kittens under Shawn’s parents’ porch last fall, “sorry I looked through your stuff. Hope you don’t mind.”

All he gets in ways of an answer is more scratching, but Sid doesn’t seem concerned. Maybe he sees Corey more as a dog type, since the next thing he does before Joey can react with a hushed yet frantic, “Don’t! What if he bites your fucking fingers off!” is stretch out his gangly arm, palm up, offering it for Corey to sniff.

Somehow it works, and Corey shuffles forward, slowly, inch by inch. A row of hot pink skulls on his wrist _jingle-jangles_. Shawn’s steps echo too loudly as he moves to push Joey back towards the stairs and put himself right in the creature’s path, shielding Sid.

Corey stops. Shawn stares him down until Sid scoots forward a little bit and pats Shawn on the knee, silently asking him to step back.

Corey doesn’t pounce. He sits back on his haunches, his spine creaking loudly when he tilts his head to the side, awaiting Shawn’s next move. A spit bubble forms at his half-open mouth. When Shawn steps back, Corey moves forward until he’s close enough that Sid can smell wood rot and mothballs.

Corey doesn’t sniff. He doesn’t appear to have much going on in terms of nostrils.

Instead he shuffles closer and raises his hand, tracing dirty fingers down the ridges of Sid’s palm, leaving dark smudges.

Sid shivers the moment Corey’s fingers touch his skin. “He’s cold,” Sid giggles quietly as he turns to look over his shoulder, where Shawn and Joey are stood, unsure how to proceed. Corey turns Sid’s hand palm down and run his fingers over the lines of the Transformers tattoo Sid got done last year in someone’s kitchen. The outline is a bit shaky and he’s never seen his mom so angry before, and both Shawn and Joey think it’s straight up ugly, but Corey seems fascinated, tracing the lines of the design _back and forth, back and forth_.

It’s like time stood still, nothing moving except for Corey’s exploratory fingers until Shawn declares, “That’s it, this is fucking weird, we’re leaving.” For all he didn’t think Corey was anything special, he looks unnerved, like he’s ready to throw Joey over his shoulder and grab Sid by the arm and _run._

“Let’s stay a bit longer. I brought snacks!” Sid announces as he slowly shimmies his hand out of Corey’s grasp and reaches for his backpack. He empties it out on the floor, snack wrappers rustling loudly, catching Corey’s attention.

“Did you grab all that yesterday?” Joey inquires, not because he gives a fuck about being a good employee, but because he has priorities, and those priorities include keeping his job until at least next week, until he gets paid and stops being five goddamn bucks short for those Morbid Angel tickets. Maybe he should’ve stuck to being a mediocre boyfriend and just taken Mick out for breakfast at Denny’s in Davenport.

“Night shift Joey doesn’t know that,” is apparently Sid’s way of apologizing, since he’s already munching on a knockoff Slim Jim, offering another one to Corey.

Corey appears more interested in the brightly-colored packaging, so Sid sticks the snack into Corey’s mouth, the same way he pokes at Joey with pretzel sticks and candy bars when he decides Joey isn’t eating enough and it’s his job to fix that to the best of his ability.

It seems like Corey finally catches on to what’s expected of him, since he reluctantly begins to chew, teeth grinding and spit dribbling down his chin. He takes his time, during which Sid starts making his way through a box of donut holes, offering some to Shawn and Joey, who both decline.

Sid knows something isn’t entirely right. Shawn never says no to donut holes. He doesn’t have time to figure out what exactly it is that’s wrong, since the next thing he knows Corey is throwing up the half-chewed Slim Jim, right there in front of him. Sid barely manages to move his feet away so that mystery meat and thick, puke-y spit don’t get on his shoes.

“You didn’t have to eat it if you don’t like it,” Sid shrugs. “Let’s see what else you could try…”

Corey runs off into the darkness.

He’s back before Sid can even start to look disappointed, hand clutching the biggest cockroach Sid has ever seen.

Corey crams the cockroach into his mouth, its legs still wiggling between his yellowed, chipped teeth as he bites down with a _crunch_ and gives Sid what could be considered a _smile._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooo boy here we go. more of this garbage bcuz yall are too nice and i wanted to write more best boy sid. apologies.


	3. Chapter 3

The summer is over as quickly as it began, lost somewhere between the mundane rituals of too-late nights and days full of nothing but the strange stillness of a town where everyone who can get away, just for a little while, does so seemingly all at once.

Shawn doesn’t get into art school.

Instead, he somehow lands a job as a _party entertainer_ , and unsurprisingly, it’s not the stripper-in-a-cake kind. No, he’s a goddamn clown, because apparently the market for the worst kind of birthday parties is still booming in the Midwest. The pay isn’t great but parents love him and he’s completely unbothered by crowds of rabid five-year-olds throwing Walmart sheet cake at him in some sort of childhood manifestation of the fight-or-flight response. All in all, he seems to be doing alright, but there’s melancholy lurking beneath the surface, itching to spill over.

It’s a Saturday and the air outside is getting colder with each dying ray of September sunshine, but it’s still just right for sitting on Shawn’s parents’ porch and watching faded green paint peel from the railing, with no obligation to do nothing but just _be._

Instead they remain stuck inside that goddamn basement _studio,_ with Shawn flipping through pages and pages of sketchbooks and piles of scrap paper, trying to find the answer as to what the fuck is just _not good enough_.

The answer is apparently not to be found, because all they end up with is Shawn sighing and cursing and throwing stuff to the floor while Sid snatches loose pages out of the air, attempting to tame the chaos before it overtakes them completely. He’s got a system going, like he has for most things, and it seems to be working out alright.

Three stacks for doodles on backs of receipts and old schoolwork, junk mail and concert flyers. One to keep, one to throw away, one for Sid to purloin when Shawn’s not looking.

Then three for stuff that could potentially build a portfolio. A pile for portraits - many Joeys, from when he still had eyebrows and was capable of more than one facial expression. Even more Sids, all blurry and too colorful, almost like they’re trying to escape from the surface of the paper. One Mick, on a page haphazardly ripped out from a ruled notebook, unfinished and crumpled like Shawn got caught red-handed. A pile for landscapes, all empty spaces lined with phone lines and punctured with old, abandoned cars. Filled with the same kind of longing that sometimes shows up in Shawn’s hooded eyes and frown lines when he takes a break from being angry. A pile for _freaky shit,_ goat heads and roadkill and bugs. This one’s stacking up considerably higher than the other two, and Sid is starting to see the root of the problem.

He makes a grab at another page thrown carelessly at Shawn’s feet when he’s surprised with a slap up the head. It stings a bit more than usual and rings loud and clear, making Joey look up from his phone for the first time that afternoon, though Sid can’t tell if the look Joey sends his way is compassionate or annoyed. The whole no eyebrows situation is bullshit.

“Fuck was that for now?” Sid looks up from his spot on the floor, aiming for pissed off but somehow sounding kind of sad, which he’s not particularly proud of. Shawn only shrugs, like he’s not even sure.

“Need that one back,” he finally replies, like it’s a valid reason to be smacking the shit out of someone.

Sid somehow stifles the desire to be petty and just tell Shawn to get off his ass and go get it himself. Instead he settles for a resigned “could’ve just asked.”

And maybe it’s a good choice, because Shawn pushes his papers and snack wrappers and spare blankets to the side, making room for Sid to join him on the lumpy sofa. Granted, it’s not much room, but that’s good, because it’s an excuse for Sid to huddle up close and lean against Shawn a little bit.

“Didn’t have to smack me,” Sid continues, picking at the loose threads of the upholstery.

Shawn doesn’t answer, just threads his fingers through Sid’s short hair and scritches gently, not even tugging at his stupid rat tail. Sid stifles a content hum and a roll of his shoulder, just to make a point. And maybe Shawn just wants to appease him, or maybe he genuinely wants to make things better, because he reaches out and pulls Sid closer, face first into his chest. Shawn’s shirt needs washed but Sid doesn’t mind.

Apparently a “Didn’t ask you to go through my shit” is Shawn’s way of saying sorry. Warm, thick fingers move up, from Sid’s back to his neck, kneading at the bony vertebrae there, right over where it’s still a bit sore.

“Someone has to, you goddamn hoarder,” Sid mumbles right into the fabric of Shawn’s shirt.

Shawn lets him stay like this for a while, until Sid’s face gets too warm and he has to pull back for air. They sit in silence interrupted only by the rapid _click-click-click_ of Joey texting on his goddamn flip phone, stretched out in the recliner in the opposite corner of the room and not giving a shit about the whole exchange.

Sid grabs Shawn’s hand and holds it palm up, tracing the lines and callouses and folds of skin. Shawn lets him. He has old man hands, littered with tiny, barely visible scars because he can be a clumsy idiot sometimes, and always stained with ink and engine grease and fuck knows what else. Sid likes them.

“You should go draw Corey. No one will come up with something like him,” Sid says to Shawn’s hand. The wet _smack_ of a kiss he receives right to the top of his head is a welcome reply.

* * *

That’s how they end up on a basement floor again, Black Sabbath playing quietly from shitty portable speakers hooked up to Joey’s iPod, Joey stretched out on a pile of those itchy blankets with satin trim that reside deep in the bowels of every single linen closet of every single house he’s ever spent the night in. He’s staring at the ceiling beams, counting spiders in their webs while Sid tangles his hair into some crooked semblance of braids, his off-tune humming and the steady scratching of Shawn’s pencils against paper and low light of flashlights surrounding them almost putting Joey to sleep.

Corey’s drawing too, instantly captivated by Shawn’s probably-horribly-overpriced art supplies. Shawn was a bit hesitant to share, but Corey is infinitely gentle, like he always is with everything they bring him when they visit. He’s slowly filling pages torn out from Shawn’s sketchbook with thin, shaky lines that don’t seem to show anything specific, all distorted shapes and colors of rot and rust.

“He’s pretty good,” Shawn observes, picking up one of the pages and nudging Joey with the toe of his shoe when there’s no reply, “kind of abstract but not really.”

Joey’s not entirely sure what Shawn means so he accepts the observation with a horizontal shrug. Sid abandons his braiding and moves up to sit down next to Corey, picking up the pages and turning them this way and that. He swears he can make out shapes in there, faces and bodies. A needle, a back alley, moon shining almost full. A candle, a pentacle, a house. He has a strong suspicion that the red is for blood.

“Would it be morally wrong to pass these off as mine?” Shawn asks. “Not all of them, only a few,” he mutters to himself, like that would somehow justify the idea.

“Very wrong,” Joey replies, sitting up and attempting to untangle his hair from Sid’s work. “But when has that ever stopped you?”

“C’mon, let’s take a break,” he nudges Shawn with a sharp fingernail as he stands up. “You’ll go blind squinting like that, and we’ll never get Make-A-Wish to buy your old ass a guide dog.” 

Shawn begrudgingly agrees, and he stands up, knees popping and back crunching as he stretches and moves towards the stairs, Sid in tow. Joey follows, throwing a “You coming?” over his shoulder.

Apparently, Corey isn’t, because he remains right where they left him, sat back on his haunches and huddled in on himself, pencils abandoned as he watches them leave.

Joey turns back, letting Shawn and Sid go ahead. He grabs Corey by the wrist and gently tugs him upwards. Corey doesn’t seem convinced, but he slowly unfolds from his customary crouch. He’s not as tall as Joey expected him to be, or maybe it’s just the hunched posture that makes him appear that way. Joey takes a deep breath and intertwines his fingers with Corey’s, hold firm but not controlling. The cold of his skin is still a surprise. He pulls Corey along, and they move forward with a shuffling of bent legs and dragging footsteps, slow but steady.

They make their way up the stairs and Corey recoils at the first touch of the warm glow of the afternoon sun on his skin. His eyes narrow and body coils tight, like he’s ready to bolt from Joey’s grasp at any second. Joey wonders how long it must have been since Corey’s seen sunlight.

Joey lets go of Corey’s hand and runs his bent knuckles down his arm, starting at the shoulder and trailing along the coarse fabric of his jumpsuit, down to his dirty fingers. He repeats the motion one, twice, aiming to reassure, like he’s seen people do with spooked horses. Somehow it works, and Corey seems to relax a little bit, shoulders lowered and back a little bit straighter. Joey grabs Corey’s hand again and they navigate the short walk through the kitchen and down the hallway.

They make it outside, and Corey stills, eyes closing and fingers gripping Joey’s hand tighter, chest expanding as he takes in a deep breath of early autumn air. They sit down on the steps, knees almost touching. The corn field rustles quietly in the distance and Corey’s dreads sway a little bit in the wind, tapping Joey’s shoulder. A few minutes pass in silence. Then Corey gets up and begins to walk.

His first steps completely on his own are a bit wobbly, unsteady but resolute, bare feet dragging though the driveway and the mostly wilted weeds growing all over it. Joey winces when he notices a piece of gravel stuck in the sole of Corey’s foot. It doesn’t bleed, and Corey appears unbothered.

Corey walks until he reaches the edge of the field bordering on the property. He walks until he can’t, because the moment he steps between the stalks of corn, his body is pulled backwards and he seems to be choking on his own breath as he falls to the ground in a graceless heap, like a dog on a too-short chain.

Before Joey can react, Corey gets up and moves forward again, steps steadier this time around. Still, he falls, landing on his back with a dull _thud_ , and Joey swears he can see Corey dragged backwards towards the house a tiny bit. Still, Corey gets up, hands studded with gravel and jumpsuit smudged with dirt, bare feet still not bleeding. He chokes again, falls again, and this time, he stays down.

“You’re stuck here too, aren’t you?” Joey asks, probably too quiet for Corey to hear, even if he were capable of an answer. Joey’s used to their conversations being one-sided, and there’s comfort in the lack of a reply. It never threatens to be anything he might not want to hear.

Corey doesn’t react, laid out flat on his back at the edge of the cornfield, cloudy eyes mirroring the overcast sky, completely still save for his fingers moving through the dirt, _back and forth, back and forth._ A solitary crow lands in the disturbed soil, probably hoping for stray seeds. When it doesn’t find any, it begins to peck at Corey’s hand. Corey doesn’t seem to mind.

Thunder rolls in the distance. It starts to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao 'new chapter' this isnt even a chapter since theres no plot its just a Mood bcuz ive been in a Mood as well. not happy w this at all but the file has been sat on my laptop for weeks and it needed to gfto. apologies, it disgusts me as well x


End file.
